Let’s just say that someone we all know [who shall remain nameless in an attempt to preserve what dignity she has left after the event I am about to describe to you] had a meeting this week with people who were going to critique some of her writing.

Let’s say that she was excited to get the feedback, but nervous that things might also go horribly wrong, that she might discover her writing is trite, uninteresting and, in the vernacular, crap!

Let’s say that she took especial care to dress well, to do her make-up with care, to be on time.

Let’s say that she was equally nervous to offer her critiques on other people’s writing because she is no expert and could, potentially upset someone by being too frank, too stupid, or too poor a writer to be offering any kind of feedback. Let’s assume then that she sat through the process of giving and receiving feedback with a small knot of apprehension in her stomach but with her mind focused on faking confidence until she began to feel it. [Don’t ask me how I know all this…just assume that I know what I am talking about].

Let’s just say that it went better than she expected, that her writing is passable and that she has room to grow. You would imagine that, in the light of her relief and the release of tension from her shoulders, the person in question would have nothing to worry about…

…nothing until, with horror, she realised that she had faked it, critiqued, listened attentively to her own critiques and discussed matters of writerly import…

…WITH HER SLIPPERS ON!!!!!

Moral of the story? I’m too embarrassed to come up with one just yet…will get back to you on that one!

Oh, honey, that sounds like something I would do. I’ve totally been there, waiting white-knuckled for everyone to tell you that your writing is hackneyed or, even worse, immature. What matters, though, is not what you wore or how you looked; it’s what your writing said about you.

So I think the moral of the story is that, if your writing is good enough, no one will care what’s on your feet. Or, as in a few cases of my own, spilt on your shirt.